InsufficientThese things will never return or grow backThe end was past long over, now in limboSaying payers for the souls kept in the purgatoryYet Karma hasn’t woken up from its resting place.Being fifteen is like being thirty is like being forty-fiveIf you don’t learn to love yourself the way that the others won’tA new young skin that writhes with time, which isn’t your allyAs your friends disappear little by little, death takes care of your adversaries.In this cancerous self-pity of the events you can’t controlOr even begin to comprehend; add the pieces to the puzzleThat you will never solve, but still think of completing…Destiny is just a playing partner calling checkmate with your hope.So either die under the boot with the dirt, worms and other dog fecesOr rise up with a wilderness spell; strap yourself to go with a big bangEither is an action or reaction of what this biosphere has been giving youInactive, you become the criminal that sell babies to drug lords and world leaders…